Grapes Frankie Reed we hung together —tight, green,not yet sweet.small things,skin against skin,no space for air.
you leanedinto every breeze.I held still.neither of us saidwhat we knewabout weight.
we ripened unevenly.you softened.I didn’t.
the stalk grew thinbetween us.not broken —just tired.
when I fell,there was no sound.just grass.just air.just me,not where you were.
you stayed.you always would have.still facing the lightlike it was enough.
if I’d stayed too,maybe we’d have gonequietly —turned dark,sank sweetinto ourselves.
but I tasted the sourbefore it came.and leftbefore you noticed.

More from Frankie Reed ↓

• @frankensteins.curios on Instagram
• She is co-curator of Flesh and Parchment, a Liverpool based zine and live poetry event celebrating queer and neurodivergent creativity.

You can listen to me read another poem, titled Skin, by Frankie over on Instagram @rembrandts.cure

Mentioned in this episode:

Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice.

We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

#WriteAfterOPO